Omnia
by shortbuschick1462
Summary: North America is on the brink of revolution. Haytham Kenway, Templar Grandmaster, is present at the Boston Massacre when he sees something he never thought he would see. When he pursues, it will change his life forever.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: I haven't seen too many stories from Haytham's viewpoint, so I thought I would turn Omnia around to capitalize on that. He **_**is**_** my favorite character, after all, so I really don't know why I didn't do this sooner. No, it's not going to be the same storyline from his point of view. It's going to be a different storyline from his point of view, but the plot points are all the same. The characters, however, are another matter. It's hard to explain…just read and see haha. I'm also implementing a kind of reality check. Chapters from Desmond's point of view as he wakes from the Animus will appear periodically. Enjoy, read, review, and tell me what you think! (Oh! I almost forgot. I'm using material from both the game and Haytham's novel, **_**Forsaken**_**. If you haven't read it, do so. It is an amazing book, and it really shows you why Haytham is the way he is.)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, just this idea…but if Haytham or Desmond actually existed, they'd be mine. (:**

_30 March, 1760_

_Even years have done little to dull the pain of losing so many that I have known. The most recent death has been Holden's, and that was nearly three years ago, as I have stated. But, learning that I had been raised and betrayed by the very same man who betrayed and murdered my father made those deaths seem like new to me again. I mourn for Holden, for my mother, for my father…for all of those that I have slaughtered by chasing down false leads and castles in the sand. Sometimes, even when the truth is presented to you on a silver platter, you simply refuse and tell yourself that someone has made a mistake. And, more often than not, deceiving yourself—deceiving **myself**—is the worst decision a person can make. Reality forced me to cast off my blinders and see the people involved in my life for who they truly were: liars and traitors. The revelation that my whole existence thus far had been built upon half-truths and no truth came at me with more force than a battering ram. I was forced to change my ways and depend on no one, trusting only those who were too afraid to ever dare trespass against me. I was done with relying on others to walk through life. So, for the past few years, I have only put unwavering trust into my own two hands. For the time being, it is serving me well._

Haytham Kenway sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. He didn't know when he would stop with writing in journals. In fact, he supposed he'd continue to do it until the end of his days. There was certainly no one else he could talk to. Certainly not one of the Templars under him, not even Charles; they would think their Grandmaster weak, or perhaps come to the conclusion that he had taken momentary leave of his senses. It was just as well, for they would never understand anyway.

The Grandmaster's hand rose to his neck, rubbing the amulet that hung there between his fingertips. The tiny etches in the wood and smooth stone that made words in foreign language could be felt, even if faintly. He traced them with a fingernail. He knew not what they meant, but somehow they comforted him in times such as these.

Even though his eyes were closed, Haytham heard the rapidly approaching footsteps before the person making the noise actually burst into his quarters—sans knocking, of course. The reason for creating such a ruckus was probably urgent.

"Master Kenway," the man—turning out to be Charles Lee—blustered. His cheeks were red with exertion, and his chest heaved to accommodate deep breaths. The dramatic entrance, however, did not particularly alarm the Grandmaster. Lee tended to make mountains out of molehills.

"That would be me, yes," Haytham replied dryly. Charles had thus far failed to pique his interest, so he proceeded to pick at something underneath his thumbnail. The news was probably a rogue informant, at the worst. Even then, he wouldn't deal with it himself—he'd have someone else tend to the problem.

Gradually, the sound of Lee's heavy breathing disappeared as seconds passed. He said nothing. The silence extended so long that the Grandmaster had to look up to his second-in-command's face. Lee's jaw was clenched, his eyes black with…anger?

"Charles?"

"We need to talk, sir," he stated flatly.

Haytham tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk, then gestured to the chair in front. "Sit down, then." Charles complied. "What is troubling you?"

"It will soon trouble _you_, not me," Charles snapped in reply. Haytham was a little surprised at the tone. He didn't appreciate it when Charles thought himself great enough to speak to him in such a manner.

"I'll thank you to watch your tone, Charles. For the second time, what is troubling you?"

Lee didn't like being reprimanded, but he said nothing. "We traveled to a village of sa—of Natives today, sir." Charles had almost said "savages", but he knew the Grandmaster disliked that word strongly.

"Yes, go on."

"As you know, we were searching for information on the Precursor Site. Outside the village, we encountered a…child."

Haytham blinked. Was that it? "And…?"

Charles Lee took a deep breath. Somewhere, deep inside, he knew what he was about to say was correct. "Master Kenway, I believe it belongs to you."

The Grandmaster couldn't believe his ears. A child? Belonging to _him_? Why, the very notion was ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

He leaned forward onto his elbows. "What are you talking about?"

"I believe the child is yours," Lee repeated. "And don't say that it's impossible!" he half-shouted when Haytham opened his mouth to do just that. "You know that it is entirely possible." The Grandmaster said nothing, so Lee continued. "I knew your little escapades with that…that _woman_ would end in disaster."

Haytham's hand twitched, curling into a fist. His face was like stone. "Change your tone, Charles, before I change it for you."

Lee did as he asked, but he did not back away from the subject at hand. "The boy looks just like you. The skin and hair are from the Mohawk, but everything else is yours. There is no denying it: I realized it when I first laid eyes on him."

The Grandmaster leaned back in his chair, putting a hand to his lips in thought. A son, then. He _might _have a son. "Did you talk to this boy?" he asked.

Charles nodded. "I asked him where the village elders were."

"And what did he say?"

"He said nothing with words, but when his saliva hit my face, it spoke volumes."

So, the boy had instinct enough to tell that some white men were a danger to Natives. Haytham would have found this humorous if Lee didn't possess a tendency to be violent when disrespected in such a manner, especially by those he considered inferior. "What did you do in response?"

Charles had expected the question, but he still shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew that the Grandmaster wouldn't be happy with the way he acted towards the child. "I…choked him, sir," Lee admitted, his cheeks coloring. It now sounded ridiculous: strangling a defenseless child.

Haytham stood and walked behind where Lee sat, closing the door to the room in case yelling ensued. He began to pace slowly about the room, hands clasped behind his back. Anger boiled inside his veins, but he maintained an eerily calm façade.

"Tell me, Charles. Why would I be upset with you strangling a _child_?"

Before he could stop himself, Lee answered with a smart tone. "Because it's yours?"

Again, Haytham's hand balled into a fist. He anchored himself right in front of his second-in-command and speared him with a glare. If looks could kill, Charles Lee would be a dead man.

"No, Charles," he growled. "When you act idiotically and without forethought, it casts a bad light upon the Order!"

At that, Charles had to stand and bring himself to his full height, which almost equaled Haytham's. "And what of _your _actions, Haytham? Do you think absconding with a Mohawk woman is fitting behavior for a Templar Grandmaster?" Lee retorted.

"Oh, I _absconded_ with her, did I?" The Grandmaster's tone was scathing.

"Yes, you did! You were unconcerned with your own Order's affairs for nearly two months!"

"That was years ago! And I'm beginning to think that my "child" is just a cover for things you never had the gumption to say, Charles," Haytham hissed.

Lee bristled. "No. He is the last straw. I have kept silent about your growing carelessness for too long. _Take care of this_, Haytham. And do it soon."

The Grandmaster refused to be spoken to in such a manner. "And what if that boy _is_ mine, Charles? How would you define 'taking care' of it? Shall I strangle him, too? Shall I not stop until he lies dead this time?" he shouted.

"I don't care what you do! Just do something!"

"What threat does he pose to us? He is but a child, you said so yourself!"

Charles paused for a moment. "He asked for my name so he could find me later on in his life."

"You gave it to him, I suppose."

"Yes, I did."

"Come now, Charles. You cannot tell me that you are afraid of him," the Grandmaster scoffed.

"What if he makes good on his promise? What if he grows to be a man and hunts me down?"

"That is a lot of what-ifs, Charles. But, I daresay that you would deserve it. You are the one who arrogantly gave him your name."

"So, you are just going to ignore this whole situation?" Lee snarled.

Haytham met his gaze. "There is no situation to ignore. I may or may not have a son. If he isn't mine, then what would be the point of pursuing him? He is only a child, Charles, and will probably forget you before he even reaches adulthood!"

"And what if he _is_ yours?"

The Grandmaster sighed, quite done with the whole argument. "If he is mine, then it is highly unlikely he even knows about me. So, again, I would disregard the matter."

"And what if your savage woman told him who his father is? What if he tries to find you?"

Haytham almost gave Lee a blow to the face for his word choice. Instead, he clenched his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest. "You are dismissed, Charles," he said. The tone clearly stated that there would be no further discussion. Lee stiffly turned around and yanked open the door, slamming it behind him.

Slowly, Haytham sank into his chair once again. _I am right_, he reassured himself. _There is nothing to take care of_.

Even so, could he go a lifetime ignoring the fact that he very well may have a son? Rather than answer his own question, Haytham took up his pen and dipped it into the inkwell, turning to a fresh journal page and beginning to write.


	2. A Revolutionary Start

**Author's Note: Apologies for the late update. Time is something that I don't have much of these days. Regardless, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the storyline.**

_1770_

Haytham Kenway strode down the streets of Boston, blocking out the furious protestations of the crowds around him. He had a job to do, and he wasn't about to let some half-witted Redcoats stop him.

"Jacobs!" he shouted, coming up behind a man standing at a street corner. Jacobs turned and, upon seeing Haytham, strode over.

"Master Kenway."

"We must find a way to use the crowd's energy to our advantage," the Templar Grandmaster replied.

Jacobs hesitated. He didn't have the foresight that Haytham Kenway had, so envisioning a positive outcome to this riot was not exactly easy for him. "How so, sir?"

Haytham's hands—which were clasped behind his back—fidgeted for a moment. So far, the riot hadn't turned to all-engrossing violence, but if he could somehow get the British troops to fire on the Bostonians, he knew an uprising would begin in earnest. The colonists' anger would be firmly planted so that a revolution could begin to grow. If he played this right, Haytham's grand plan would be set into motion. True, it would take a few years to reach fruition. But it would be planted nonetheless.

"We need someone there—" he pointed to a rooftop on the left, "—and there." He pointed to an adjacent rooftop. "These people are furious and restless, the guards included. If we send a shot into the air, they're going to be moved to fire into the crowd."

Jacobs glanced at him. That could work, but for certain? "Are you sure they will fire, sir?"

The Grandmaster stifled a sigh. Jacobs was definitely his least favorite handyman, and his rodent-esque face was not very pleasant to look at. "I'm almost positive."

"What about the colonists, sir? Surely many will be wounded—if not killed—if the Redcoats begin to shoot."

"A few can die for the greater good, Jacobs. Go find Charles and tell him the plan; you take the right roof, and give him the left. Off with you."

"Right away, Master Kenway." Jacobs hurried off into the swarm of people.

Haytham kept eyes on him until the crowd swallowed him whole. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache coming on. The slight throbbing in his temples threatened to become a painfully loud pounding if he didn't rest soon. The Templar Grandmaster had no choice, however. He had to see his plan executed, so painful headache it was.

"Stop! Congregating in this manner is forbidden!"

The strained voice of the lead guard miraculously floated above the din of raging shouts and calls. Haytham opened his eyes and watched him. "Return to your homes, and all will be forgiven!"

One colonist shouted something rather rude after that, and Haytham chuckled. All that was left to do was wait for the fuse to be lit.

A few minutes passed, and he saw Charles step onto the highest point of the left rooftop. He had readied his pistol, but was waiting for Jacobs to make a shot with the musket.

Only, the shot never came.

After another handful of minutes passed, Haytham agitatedly glanced up at the right rooftop where Jacobs was supposed to be stationed. What he saw instead was an altogether different man standing over Jacobs's body, some kind of short, bloodied blade in his hand. The Grandmaster was stunned. How had the stranger been able to perceive what was going on?

Charles saw what had happened as well and raised his pistol, firing a single bullet into the sky. There was a split second of utter silence, and then a guard cried, "Damn you! _Fire_!"

Well, at least one thing went according to plan.

The Grandmaster turned his attention back to Jacobs's rooftop as muskets roared. Charles had long deserted his post, but the man who had killed Jacobs still lingered, looking in horror at the scene below. A perfect scapegoat.

Haytham yanked on the arm of a nearby Redcoat to get his attention, then pointed to the figure looming above Jacobs's body. Unluckily, the man was watching the blame being placed on him and turned tail, sprinting across the rooftops with alarming ease. Who was it, some kind of vigilante? The Grandmaster knew the guards wouldn't catch him, so he decided to give chase himself. The man may be fast, but Haytham wasn't alpha of the Templar Order for nothing.

He dashed up a ladder, steeling his jaw as the cold wind sliced into him. Higher altitudes were not exactly ideal during a harsh Boston winter. The snow upon the rooftops cushioned his footfalls as he ran across shingles, leaping from one platform to the next. Slowly but surely, he was gaining on the fleeing man.

About a mile after they'd lost the guards following from the ground, Haytham was less than fifteen feet behind him. A particularly lengthy jump was fast approaching, and the stranger looked to hesitate for a short second. Nevertheless, he launched himself into the air, limbs flailing. He looked as if he were relying on luck to make it across.

The man could not manage to properly land. He sprawled into a pile after coming down hard, rolling a few times from momentum. Haytham, however, leapt to the neighboring rooftop with grace rivaling a deer. The landing was flawless, and he hurried to grab the man before he could take off again. The Grandmaster noticed he was wearing strange, hide-like clothing typical of a Native. "Don't move," Haytham hissed, roughly turning the man over so that he was face-up.

What he saw quite literally took his breath away.

It was no man, but a mere teenaged boy, and this boy's eyes were unquestionably from Ziio. It was the same soulful brown, and even though they were partially obscured by coal-black hair, Haytham recognized them almost instantly. The facial structure of the boy was also undeniably Kenway.

And he just knew. In that moment, he knew: the boy was definitely his. That heated argument with Charles all those years ago came rushing back, filling the Grandmaster's ears with a distant roar.

"F-father," the boy spit out. The word was marred with both venom and breathlessness as his chest heaved. In lieu of replying (he had no words anyway), Haytham mentally calculated the years since he and Charles's discussion as quickly as he could. After that, he delved even further: he added the years in between the conversation and he and Ziio's short-lived relationship.

When the number came out to be one that appeared to match the boy's age, Haytham had to restrain himself from vomiting.


	3. Decisions

**Author's Note: Holy crap. Sorry for the late update, I have been so, so busy.**

**Disclaimer: I only own this idea, not the Assassin's Creed franchise. Wish I owned Haytham, but hey, we can't have everything.**

Never in all his life did Haytham think a situation as foreign as this would come to pass. Even when he was living among Spanish-speaking peoples, it was less awkward than this. The boy—_his son_—clearly knew who he was, but the Grandmaster could not say the same of the boy. After all, he'd never even laid eyes on him before. The boy had already called him "father." What did he say to that?

"How do you know about me?" Not the most thought out response, but Haytham didn't have much to go on.

Disgust passed across the child's face. "Achilles has told me all about you and your schemes."

The Templar's eyebrows shot straight to the moon, and his mouth stretched open in shock. That wretched Assassin was training him? Obviously not very well, he noted. It was a grave mistake to specifically name names. It usually got people killed.

"Ah, yes. The Assassin," Haytham spit. "How long have you been under his broken wing?"

The boy began to struggle. He was strong for someone of his age, Haytham would give him that. But compared to him, the boy was weak. The Grandmaster applied a bit more pressure to his arms to stop his movements. "How long?" he repeated.

"Get off of me!"

"You try my patience, _boy_," Haytham growled through gritted teeth.

The boy's eyes glittered with defiance, but he answered nonetheless. "Since mid-November."

Mid-November? It was only March fifth. Of course the boy was so green: he'd only been in training for about five months. "And what has Achilles told you of my schemes?"

"The Templars aim to enslave the colonists. They side with the British." The young voice was filled with naïve conviction.

"Such naïveté," Haytham scoffed. "Tell me, boy. Have you ever bothered to ask about the core doctrine of the Templars? Or do you just take everything _Achilles_ tells you and write it on your heart?"

"I have no desire to learn about the Templars!"

"And _there_ is where you are wrong. You will never be able to defeat your enemies if you do not first understand them." Haytham paused, then made a decision. "I'm going to let you up now. If you even _attempt_ to run from me, I will shoot you." The Grandmaster let his words sink in, then gently relaxed his iron grip and stood.

The boy stood as well. Not yet fully grown, he only came to Haytham's shoulder. A tense silence was destroyed when a blustering voice made itself known from behind.

"Master Kenway!"

Charles Lee scrambled onto the rooftop, puffs of vapor illustrating his shortness of breath. Without asking or observing, he raised the musket to his shoulder, bayonet pointed in the direction of the boy.

"For God's sake, Charles, don't shoot!" Haytham shouted, yanking the boy behind him.

"He could be a danger to you!" Lee insisted, not yet lowering the weapon even though his target was obscured.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "He is but a boy, Charles." The boy in question gifted the Grandmaster with a hateful look that was not seen by the latter.

Lee slowly lowered the musket, coming to balance the end on the roof tiles. "Now what?" he asked simply.

Haytham thought for a moment. _The second Charles gets a proper look at his face, he'll know_, he said to himself. _I shall not hear the end of it anytime soon, but it cannot be avoided if I am to carry out my plan._

The Grandmaster made a show of stepping away from the boy, exposing his full profile to Lee. The man's dark, beady eyes scrutinized the person he had almost shot, widening vastly when he realized who he was looking at. The man's mouth opened, then closed. It opened once more and just gaped for a period before a word found its way out. "H-Haytham," Lee stuttered.

"I know, Charles. If you would, escort him back to the Green Dragon for me. I have business that needs to be attended to." Haytham delivered the order in his normal authority, but he felt nervous. What was to stop Charles if he decided to put a musket ball in the boy's skull on the way to the tavern?

Lee's face turned a rather hideous shade. A thick vein bulged from his temple, showing his anger. "Are you mad, Haytham?"

"Perhaps. Now, do as I ask."

In the midst of climbing down a ladder that was propped against the roof's side, the boy spoke up. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Suit yourself," the Grandmaster replied easily. "Charles here can go ahead and kill you if you will not comply."

After a quick minute of thinking, his son ground his teeth. "Even if I do, he will probably shoot me anyway."

"You've got a bright one here, Haytham," Lee growled quietly.

The Grandmaster clenched his jaw and gave his second-in-command a glare. "_No_, he will _not_," he said pointedly. "Peacefully go with him, and no harm will come to you."

Just before Haytham dropped out of sight, the boy hurriedly said, "And where are you going?"

The Grandmaster's eyes flickered up to meet his son's, staring for a moment.

"Never you mind," he replied.


	4. Unanswered Questions

**Author's Note: Hey, guys. Apologies for the absence. I do these on my free time, and I haven't had much lately. **

**Disclaimer: Only the fic is mine, not the franchise.**

_I have a son. I have a son._

Haytham's thoughts swirled around in his head as if they were being stirred in a cauldron. He slowly walked down the crowded streets of Boston, blocking out the din of wild chatter and animals. People laughed and smiled as they moved around him, hurrying to get back to their conversations. There were the occasional passersby who threw a curious glance at the obviously distracted man. Predictably, he didn't notice them.

So Lee had been right all those years ago. The Templar Grandmaster pondered that for a moment, giving a huff of breath that barely passed for a chuckle when he realized the irony of it. Rarely did he ignore Charles's point of view on matters, and the one time he did, this happened to him. His second-in-command would no doubt put forth exuberant effort to convince Haytham to get rid of the boy in whatever manner necessary.

The more Haytham thought about it, however, the more he reasoned with himself that keeping his son by his side would be more beneficial than detrimental. For the Order, of course. The Grandmaster did not have the leisure to make decisions based upon emotion, though his thoughts had strayed to Ziio numerous times now. Why hadn't she told him about their son? More importantly, why wasn't the boy with her or she with him? Haytham found it hard to swallow that Ziio would encourage her—_their_—son to lead a life of killing others in the name of a severely misguided attempt at unattainable peace. She'd been so against his own similar line of work when she'd found out that he was a Templar. If she ordered her son to follow the Brotherhood of the Assassins, she'd taken an unbelievable dive into hypocrisy. How had she even known about the Brotherhood?

Haytham's lips pursed as his mood turned sour. A gargantuan explanation for this was needed, he decided. He turned on his heel and headed back to the Green Dragon.

* * *

"Master Kenway," the maid greeted, curtseying as he strode by. He gave her a quick nod and continued on his way, jogging up the wooden stairs. He saw Charles seated at the table in the corner, nursing a large tankard. The boy was noticeably missing.

The Grandmaster knew Charles would hear him approach, as the tavern was nearly empty. "Charles, where is—"

Cutting him off without a word, Lee sharply pointed in the direction of Haytham's quarters, the door to which was closed. He strode into the room, opening his mouth to address the boy.

The words froze on his tongue; the boy was dead asleep on the bed. He hadn't even bothered to get under the covers. He was curled up on his side, his right arm cradling his head underneath the pillow.

Haytham sighed and lifted his hat, running a hand over his hair. A few strands escaped the ribbon that tied it back. He toyed with the idea of waking the boy up—he had hoards of questions. He didn't even know his name, for God's sake! However, the Grandmaster decided to let him be for the moment. He was exhausted himself, so the inquiries would have to wait.


End file.
